Hangar Sweepings: Reflections of an Airport Bum

By Harold Mills

After Charles Lindbergh made his historic non-stop flight from NY to Paris, the whole country went air crazy. All the fashionable young women wore cloche hats with simulated goggles and danced the Lindy Hop. My Mom was one of these. The following year, when I was three, we stood in front yard and cheered when Lindy flew over in the Spirit of St. Louis in the front seat of Curtis Jenny. I never got over it. My Dad only flew once in his life, with me after I got a Private license. It was a trust thing. He sat in the back seat of Cub rigid as a board the whole time.
These stories all first appeared in the Carolina Unicom which is the monthly newsletter of the EAA Chapter 1083 based at the Rowan County Airport in Salisbury NC. The stories were gleaned from my days as a Ramp Rat at the airport and 22 years as a Photo Interpreter in the Air Force. The pencil sketches were made by my youngest son, Curtis. Some of the photos were made by me, the others were made by my old friend, G.C. Luke Teeter, John Suther, Jim Torrence and Smith Kirk.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 30, 2009
• ISBN: 9781453565537

Harold Mills

From his front yard, when he was growing up in the 1930's, Harold Mills could see the biplanes taking off and landing at the Salisbury, NC Airport. He learned to fly before he learned to drive a car. He served 22 years as an Air Force Photo Interpreter and 18 years as Executive Director of a health association. He has been married to the same girl since 1949. They have four children and three grandchildren.

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Copyright © 2009 by Harold Mills.

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4415-0155-4

Softcover 978-1-4415-0154-7

Ebook 978-1-4535-6553-7

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Contents

FIRST OF ALL

ONE

END OF AN ERA

TWO

GETTING STARTED

THREE

FIRST STANG

FOUR

FIRST GOONEY BIRD

FIVE

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

SIX

HOPPING PASSENGERS

SEVEN

PARACHUTES &

NON-MIGRATORY ROCKS

EIGHT

DIVE BOMBER PILOT

NINE

A FEW WORDS ABOUT

A MAN OF FEW WORDS

TEN

THE PIFFNER

ELEVEN

MAMA’S PLACE

TWELVE

THE RADIO FLYER

THIRTEEN

AIRPLANE MAGAZINES

FOURTEEN

GAS STATIONS

FIFTEEN

LEARNING TO FLY

SIXTEEN

THE MILLS/BAKER STRIATION

SEVENTEEN

BASIC TRAINING CENTER #1

EIGHTEEN

FOUR ENGINED CUB

NINETEEN

THE TAIL GUNNER

TWENTY

TEE-EIGHT-LOVE

TWENTY-ONE

HURRAY FOR HOLLYWOOD

TWENTY-TWO

THEY FLY AT CENTENARY

TWENTY-THREE

WING WALKING

TWENTY-FOUR

RAMP RAT DAYS

TWENTY-FIVE

STALLING AROUND

TWENTY-SIX

REMEMBER YOUR MAMA

TWENTY-SEVEN

DINGS, DENTS, AND BENT BIRDS

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE PERFECT LANDING

TWENTY-NINE

THE NIGHT THE

ANGELS SMILED

THIRTY

RECORD SETTING

THIRTY-ONE

THE 1947 NATIONAL AIR RACES

THIRTY-TWO

SPACE JUNK

THIRTY-THREE

THE JUNK COLLECTOR

THIRTY-FOUR

POOPING IN A BUCKET

THIRTY-FIVE

LANDIS AIRPORT

THIRTY-SIX

JUMP CAT

THIRTY-SEVEN

MORE LANDIS STUFF

THIRTY-EIGHT

PHOTOFLASH

THIRTY-NINE

BALLOONS!

FORTY

FORMOSA

FORTY-ONE

THE TEST SITE

FORTY-TWO

SUPER DUPER SONIC

FORTY-THREE

SAC MUSEUM

FORTY-FOUR

BITF at RUQ

FORTY-FIVE

THE COLD WAR

FORTY-SIX

THE MOVIE MAKER

FORTY-SEVEN

ABYSSINIA

FORTY-EIGHT

EATING CROW

FORTY-NINE

A NEWBORN BABY

FIFTY

AFTER THE BALL

FIFTY-ONE

THE JINX

FIFTY-TWO

THE TWIN TOWERS

FIFTY-THREE

THE ANNIVERSARY

FIFTY-FOUR

CHRISTMAS TREE ORNAMENTS

FIFTY-FIVE

SHORT SNORTERS

FIFTY-SIX

DIAMONDS FOR THE LADY

FIFTY-SEVEN

PULP FICTION

FIFTY-EIGHT

UGLY AIRPLANES

FIFTY-NINE

CALLING ALAMEDA

SIXTY

OLD AIRPLANE DRIVERS

THANKS!

Back in 1995 when I started writing this series of monthly columns, which I call Hangar Sweepings, for the Carolina Unicom, the Newsletter of EAA Chapter 1083 located at the Rowan County Airport (formerly Salisbury Airport) in North Carolina, I figured I had enough stories to last maybe a year or eighteen months. Now, here it is thirteen years later and I’m still at it. Talk about Long Winded.

The Carolina Unicom has been edited by Larry Murphy, Claude Jean (The Frenchman), and Jack Neubacher. Not one of these gentlemen has ever tried to influence what I write in any way and for that I thank them. I also thank the membership many of whom come up to me and tell me that they have enjoyed one or more of the columns. Some even call me a Writer, high praise indeed for one who grew up in a southern cotton mill village and was the first of his family to finish High School.

I also thank my son, Curtis, who did the pencil sketch for the cover as well as a group of sketches in pencil and ink that are scattered randomly through the book. Curtis inherited his artistic skill from his mother, certainly not from me.

The following book was also written by Harold Mills

The Legionnaire a novel about the Lafayette Escadrille

FIRST OF ALL

(Sometimes Called the Prologue)

This is a series of stories about airplanes and airplane people. Many of the stories take place at the Airport just south of Salisbury, NC during the 1940’s, a period my old friend, former acrobatics instructor and best man, Guy Poplin called The best damned decade of the twentieth century.

Overlain by a transparent patina of poverty, working for the Salisbury Aircraft Service in the 1940’s was like the cliché about flying. It was hours and hours of boring routine punctuated by moments of unalloyed panic and sometimes high comedy. It was a time when people came out and parked along the road to watch the airplanes fly and, on Sunday, they might feed a nickel or two into the soft drink machine, or buy a bag of popcorn from Ralph Murray for a quarter, or even shell out two bucks to see their fair city from the sky. Most of us went off to the far corners of the globe during WWII then returned for a few years before setting out on whatever path we were to follow. Some went to the airlines, some into various business pursuits, and a few decided to tough out a career in the Air Force.

Twenty-five years flash by. The airplane drivers are ready to figuratively hang up the old helmet and goggles. The business types have worn out their swivel chairs. The career military types have hung up their uniforms and allowed the brass to tarnish. It is like an imploding galaxy. With the old Salisbury airport, (now called Rowan County and with a paved runway no less), as the center, the black hole, if you will, the old bunch, like asteroids with swollen knuckles, aching backs and fluttering tickers came stumbling home. Before long we were meeting twice a year for lunch, wearing baseball caps with 1942 Hangar Sweepers embroidered on the front, proud of our collective past.

Then, one day in the summer of 1995, Guy came by the house and asked me to go with him to a meeting of the newly formed Experimental Aircraft Association Chapter for Rowan County, NC. Guy was never much of a joiner but he was being made an honorary member of the organization and they were giving him their Lifetime Allegiance to Aviation award. He wanted me and G. C. Teeter and Smith Kirk to go along because I’ll just be damned if I’m going to sit there with a bunch of strangers and nobody to talk to.

Guy was the perfect candidate for the award. A virtual orphan, he came to the Salisbury Airport as a teenager and lived in the small apartment upstairs in the hangar. That was his official home of record for many years. He worked at every menial chore while earning an instructor’s rating, a multi engine rating and an instrument rating. He taught 75 people to fly and wound up flying for Southern Airways in Atlanta. He amassed over 23,000 hours flying time, almost two and a half years in the air.

As you have probably already guessed, G.C., Smith and I sat and talked with each other while Guy chatted away with first one then another of the strangers. The evening wound up with all of us becoming members of the Chapter, (Complementary for Guy) and, after a couple more meetings I agreed to write a short column for the monthly newsletter. That was over ten years ago. I called the column Hangar Sweepings. The subject matter has always been left up to me and has included stories from the early days at Salisbury plus some tales from my 23 years in the Air force and, since I’ve always fancied myself as somewhat of an amateur aviation historian, perhaps a little light history.

It all began when the chapter started a newsletter. Don’t all new organizations start a newsletter? The Editor, Larry Murphy, started appealing to the members for articles. I’d always wanted to be a writer, even a hack writer, and I couldn’t think of anything else I might do to contribute so I wrote the following letter.

Dear Larry,

Your repeated appeals for someone—anyone—to write some stuff for the Carolina Unicom has touched me deeply. It is so degrading that you should be reduced to begging. If it will help I can put together a few nostalgic words now and then about the old days at the Salisbury Air Patch. If Good ‘ol Days" stories triggers and aversion reflex, then deposit this letter in the round file and no hard feelings.

I know it’s hard to believe, Larry but there was life and flying before Clyde Cessna’s all metal marvels blanketed the earth. In the days before CD-ROM’s and Big Macs, we had pretty girls, daring young men, open cockpits and rudimentary airplanes with no radios, starters, or nose wheels

The airport at that time consisted of one hangar, where we regularly housed up to 25 airplanes (honest), a CAA maintained rotating beacon and two 2700-foot dirt runways. The E/W runway was mostly grass while the N/S runway was sandy with muddy spots when it rained. At the intersection of the runways was a 24-inch wide concrete circle about 100 ft. across with four arms pointing the direction of the runways. It was a Govt. WPA project and looked very much like the chart symbol for an Aerodrome with Facilities. That white circle was visible for many miles and served to lure lost and confused pilots of machines as diverse as P-39’s and Ogden Ospreys.

The people were even more diverse than the airplanes. Some of us were there every day, gunking engines, spinning props, sweeping the hangar. Others came on the weekends. They flew sometimes but being part of the fraternity is what counted most. The names that follow were the people who kept aviation alive in Rowan County during the decade of the 1940’s.

In the beginning were the managers, Coke Hewlett, then Bob McKee, then the partners Clay Swaim and George Brown. The rest of us were: Guy, Lloyd, Vandy, Butch, Peavine, Piffner, the formation flyers: Luke, Ralph & H.F., Straight, H.L., R.J., two Ed’s (McLean & Hodges), K. Troutman, Ned, Harry, Julian, the Flora’s (Herb, Flat Nut & Kim), McCoy. Jimmy Morris, Zeb, Smith, Geech, Giggles, Gump, Pee-Wee, Ote, Three-Point, Marvin, A.B. Via, four Johns (Frazier Sr & Jr, Suther, & Callaghan), Prentiss, Fred Carter, Fred Daniel Boyd, Craig, Bob Gibson, two WASPs (Betty Egan & Eleanor Thompson), The Miller brothers (Harold, Howard & Jimmy), Jimmy Maddox, Jimmy Morris, Lindsey, Peg Snider, Polly (nee Russell) and Marvin Overcash, the Owens (W.A., Bill & Lawrence), The Peelers (Greg & Lewis), Paul Sweringen, and last but by no means least was Ralph Murray who was paraplegic and who Lloyd brought out to the airport every week-end to make and sell popcorn.

Add to this a thousand plus students in the CPTP, V-5, CTD and GI Bill programs. Also an old mongrel dog named Fuzzy, two air-cooled ’39 Crossly convertibles, a green Indian motorcycle, a 41 Buick Super, an ugly little Fiat with solid wheels, a ’41 Studebaker President, a ’34 Ford with yellow spoke wheels, a ’37 Airflow DeSoto and a ’40 Chevvy station wagon (woody) for pulling a looong flatbed trailer used for hauling disassembled, sometimes broken, flying machines and an old Fordson tractor used to tow a mowing machine that George made from the rear axle of a truck and a 72 inch sawmill circular saw blade.

Anyhow, Larry, that’s the cast of characters. I suggest you take a vote of the membership on whether or not they’d like to see a series of stories about the beginnings and evolution of the Rowan County Airport and aviation in general. Those voting No to the thrilling tales of time’s tarmac should accompany their votes with a manuscript. Those not voting should be counted as Yes votes. In the tradition of American politics Yes votes will counted twice.

Sincerely and All That

H. Mills

(Editor’s note: I for one vote YES!! for such a series. True, it makes my job a little easier, but mostly I want to find out the origins of some of those nick-names!!!!!)

ONE

END OF AN ERA

One autumn afternoon in 1978 a rather large crowd assembled on the ramp in front of the hangar at the Rowan County, NC Airport. The occasion was to honor Clay Swaim by renaming the airport Swaim Field.

Among those present were Tom Davis, Ote Corriher, Straight Rhinehart, Lynn Vandy Nesbit, Ralph Shipton, Guy Poplin, G.C. Luke Teeter, Smith Kirk, Harold Mills and many other former aircraft owners, pilots, and ex employees, whose names I can’t recall. Conspicuously absent was Clay’s former partner, George Brown.

Clay had suffered a stroke and had to be helped onto the flatbed trailer used for a speaker’s platform. He shuffled in small mincing steps when he walked. Those of us who knew him well knew that he hated to be seen in that condition. He did not speak except to say Thank You.

Clay died in 1991 in a nursing home. He was nearly blind from years of wearing hard contact lenses without taking them out during the day because he didn’t want anyone to know that he needed glasses. All the former instructors, mechanics and hangar sweepers who were close enough to make it, came to the funeral including George.

Back in the 1930’s, Clay Swaim and George Brown formed a verbal and enduring partnership to take over the operation of the airport at Salisbury when Bob McKee, the FBO at the time, left to fly for Delta Airlines. The business was incorporated under the name Salisbury Aircraft Service.

Clay and George were as different as any two people can be but each brought something to the business that was essential and that the other could not provide. Clay was the quintessential administrator and businessman. George, an Embry Riddle grad, had a mechanics license and an instructor rating. Clay ran the business up front and George ran the shop and, over the years, taught over a hundred people to fly.

During all the years that I knew them I never saw them exchange a single smile. There was respect and, sometimes, controlled irritation, but never a cross word. They rode the crest of the wartime flying boom employing up to seven instructors and enough shop personnel to do complete aircraft and engine rebuilds.

Many people doing business with the company never knew that George was a partner and he seemed to prefer it that way. George had the hands of a welder (which he was) and was built like a block of granite. It always seemed incongruous to see him do his favorite trick which was landing a Cub softly on one wheel as delicately as a ballerina en-pointe. George died quietly, at his home in Mt. Ulla, NC on the eleventh of May 2000, just two months past his 91st birthday. Members of the 1942 Hangar Sweepers, a group of old time fliers and former employees, were honorary pallbearers.

TWO

GETTING STARTED

From about the time I was old enough to dress myself I wanted to fly, to spend my entire life in the glamorous and exciting world of aviation. I dang near did.

During my last year in high school, early 1940’s, the world was at war and Boyden High offered an elective course called Pre Flight Aeronautics for kids like me who were interested in aviation. I signed up. There is a picture in the 1943 annual of the entire class on a field trip, standing in front of a Piper J-5, Cruiser at the Salisbury Airport.

On the same page in the annual there is a picture made on the same day, of those of us who were in the D.O. (Diversified Occupations) program for mill hill kids and others with little or no chance, of going to college. The D.O. program permitted me to leave school at noon each day to work at the airport.

I’ll never forget that first day. At noon I walked down Fulton Street to five points, where Fulton meets Main. From that point it was about four miles to the airport. I stuck out my thumb, calling out AIRPORT real loud to each car that passed. No one stopped. People didn’t seem impressed by the fact that one of America’s future birdmen needed a ride to the glamorous and enthralling landing ground where genuine airplanes were housed. For all they knew I was a famous and daring pilot cleverly disguised as a high school kid.

Finally some feller, who came out of the café across the street, probably tired of hearing me yell, pulled over in his Ford coupe and said, Get in. I’ll take you out to the airport. I didn’t know until later that he was Jimmy Maddox, one of the old time Jenny pilots from back in the twenties.

My interview was with Clay Swaim. He wore a Civil Air Patrol uniform with red epaulettes. With his close clipped moustache he looked very military. He would leave within a day or two in his Fairchild 24, to resume patrolling the coastal waters for U boats. The Fairchild is still out there, in the ocean, 25 or 30 miles southeast of Cape Lookout, where he ditched after the engine quit.

The interview was short and sweet. He told me that I’d be expected to help in the shop overhauling engines and recovering airframes. I’d also pump gas, wash airplanes, wash engines, mow grass and do anything else that could be done by unskilled labor. For this he couldn’t pay me any money but I would be given dual instruction, taught to fly and afterward, be allowed to fly the airplanes to build time for a private license. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. My big worry had been that I wouldn’t be allowed to fly. I’d never thought about money.

Mr. Swaim (I don’t think I ever called him Mr. Swaim after that first day. He was Clay to everyone) then led me out into the hangar and introduced me to his partner, George Brown, who would be my immediate boss. George was chief pilot and, since he had an aircraft mechanics license, was also shop chief.

Two other members of my high school class were already working there; Ralph Shipton and G.C. (Luke) Teeter. They had been there almost a year and had already soloed. I was extremely jealous.

Luke and Ralph each had push brooms in their hands. George pointed to another broom for me and that became the first work I performed in aviation, a Hangar Sweeper.

At the end of the first week Clay took me up in one of the Cubs and let me hold the controls for fifteen minutes or so. I suppose he wanted to keep me on the string. I was so pumped I couldn’t sleep that night. After that one of the instructors, Colin (Butch) Allred, took me under his wing and soloed me in a J-3 Cub after five and a half hours.

We were all too young to realize it during those early years, but we were forging friendships that would last a lifetime and those of us who survive are, still, A Band of Brothers.

THREE

FIRST STANG

Some things you never forget; the day JFK was shot; the first moon landing; The first P-51, Mustang; Flash back to the Salisbury Airport in 1943. Luke (G.C. Teeter) and I were cleaning Lycoming engine parts in the shop when we heard a sound we had never heard before. At that point in our lives we had never heard a jet engine, or a helicopter, or a V-12 engine running full out. This sound was the scream of a 1200 horsepower Allison engine, wound up tight, passing low over the hangar.

We dang near got stuck trying to get through the door at the same time. In thirty seconds flat, everyone who could walk or crawl was on the ramp eyeballing the swift, dark fighter in a steep turn north of the field. He was lining up with the runway and I heard someone say, He must be in trouble if he’s landing here.

Even we hick aviators and shade tree mechanics knew that you didn’t land the world’s most advanced fighter on a 2700 foot dirt runway just because you had to go to the bathroom real, real bad.

Just then the gear and flaps came down. His approach was low and hot. He chopped power and sailed over the boundary lights with about six feet to spare. The bird didn’t stop flying until it was almost halfway down the runway.

He went by the main taxiway like a scalded dog with his elevators full up, alternately locking the brakes and juicing the Allison when the tail would try to lift. He disappeared in a huge cloud of dust when he went off the south end of the runway. Most of us grabbed fire extinguishers and ran for vehicles figuring we’d have to gather up whatever fragments we could find. Before we could get started, there was a mighty snort from the depths of the dust cloud and the olive drab nose poked through the swirling dirt like a stripper peeking from behind her fan. Fortunately the runway didn’t end in an embankment but was a gentle slope of about fifteen degrees covered with pine seedlings, brambles and rabbit tobacco right down to the dirt road where he managed to turn around.

I don’t remember the pilot’s name. I wish I did. He was a Staff Sergeant, ex-Eagle Squadron Spitfire pilot who fought in the Battle of Britain. He was being used to ferry airplanes while awaiting a commission in the Air Corps. He landed because he was out of gas and he did an excellent job when you consider that it was only the second time he had flown a P-51.

The POL wonks